


Creative Burnout

by virmillion



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, and he comes back, but still, probably, technically he doesnt DIE because hes a concept and not a person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-08-19 21:49:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16542917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virmillion/pseuds/virmillion
Summary: i didn't have my art tablet when i wrote this so have some irritable projecting





	Creative Burnout

Roman’s mind is, to put it lightly, two hares short of an overrun rabbit colony. Even from his position in the mind palace—which has impeccable decorations, mind you—he isn’t completely numb to what goes on in ‘the real world,’ as Logan so condescendingly calls it.

Yes, yes, there’s been many a conversation where Logan would insist Roman take his focus off the date, off the internet, off of whatever Thomas might be doing so he could get cracking at behind the scenes work. So sure, Roman would take the occasional break from, well,  _ life, _ to make sure someone else’s could run smoothly. He’s perfectly fine with this arrangement.

Usually.

There are, however, certain occasions that are, shall we say, less than ideal. He can always tell when Thomas is getting impatient, when the fans are getting twitchy for more content, when people expect him to pump out more creations than he can possibly dream up, let alone create. This is why Roman is so astute about lingering over Thomas’s shoulder whenever he’s online—he can check in to see just how annoyed the fans are at Thomas refusing to sleep, he can monitor how long it’s been since something he did had any significance in ‘the real world,’ and he can basically just make sure Thomas is still fully operational without having to constantly be spitting out new ideas.

Roman has a bad habit of lingering a little too long.

He can feel it now, his eyes aching from the strain of trying to see his fully dimmed laptop without surrendering to sleep. His gaze flicks over to the corner of the screen—four am—before returning to the blinking cursor on the blank page.  _ Blink. Blink. Blink blink blink the tears away. _

__ Roman digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, feeling the pricks of heat building up behind them. It’s been a while, now—three weeks since a video that wasn’t a compilation, a month since the horror game playthrough, two months since an original song, and three months since a plot-driven Sanders Sides episode.

He’s learned to recognize the signs of creative burnout by now, but that doesn’t make the ordeal any easier. It always starts with the pangs masquerading as unborn tears, but it never stays that way long. Even still, being ready for it, pleading with his mind to put one idea, one thought, one single word behind the blink, blink, blinking cursor, there’s no hope for him. He glances to the corner again—half five am. The light under his door, boasting a hallway of sides who are, quite rightfully, sound asleep. Yeah, he’s seen the fanfictions and fanarts on tumblr, insisting that Logan cares about everyone’s sleep schedule except his own, that Virgil never slept because the darkness could swallow him up, even a particularly odd one where Patton had pigtails and raccoon hands—Roman had never been quite brave enough to prod further at that.

Regardless, those are all just common possibilities, but for tonight in particular, everyone was exhausted. Including Roman. Manning a first date is not an easy task, mind you, and every last side feels the aches and strains as they slumber peacefully under mountains of blankets. Except Roman.

It’s been too long since he created something. He’d been pushing himself so hard, for  _ so long, _ he was just running dry. Every idea is terrible, and nothing is working out, and there’s nothing more for him to think up. Creative burnout. A common thing, and one easily remedied, provided you weren’t the metaphorical embodiment of creativity. An unfortunate linchpin of a technicality for Roman.

The burning behind his eyes has spread by now. It always moves straight to his feet, that’s for sure. The familiar numbness of his toes falling asleep crescendos into a stabbing pain, screeching louder and louder until it stops. He glances down, and sure enough, a pretty little pile of skin-colored ash is building at the hem of his pants. Roman carefully places the laptop on the nightstand, figuring it’s safer there than atop a pile of decayed ideas. Holding his breath, he waits for his clothing to spark.

When it does, it moves quickly.

The flicker of yellow blooms into a starving orange flower, consuming every thread covering his body as his skin tingles, literally and metaphorically on fire. It almost feels like the floor being dropped out from under him at a gentle slope, the sensation in his shins vanishing, followed by his knees and his thighs. This is always the worst part.

Roman fights the urge to writhe in pain as the trail of fire crawls up to his throat, sending shots of pain through his lungs as oxygen filters through holes in air cavities that no longer exist. He barely even remembers to clench his fingers into a fist as he grinds his teeth together to keep from screaming out—it doesn’t really matter, as his fingers dissipate into nothingness and the fist vanishes. Lungs gone, arms gone, torso gone, he can hear his hair shriveling up as it melts away. Well, he can almost hear it—his ears are already burned, thousands of times hotter than whatever shame the greatest embarrassment might bring.

The eyes always go last. Always staying open as long as possible, absorbing as much information as they can while they have the chance.

What used to be Roman is now a few stray golden buttons and a dull red sash, smeared with what looks to be dirt—to the untrained eye, at least. This is the sight that greets Logan when he impatiently yanks the door open the following morning.

“We were supposed to start works hours ago, what are you—” Logan barely flinches, leaning on the doorframe. “Roman, I thought we talked about this.” He sets about gathering the buttons and sash, bundling them up for safe keeping until Roman can make his appearance once more. “If you work yourself too hard, you’ll burn out. We’ve had this conversation an incomprehensible number of times. Although, I suppose I am talking to an empty room.”

Patton hesitates by the door, picking at an eyelash on his glasses. “So one less diner for breakfast?”

Logan nods. “He’ll be back by tonight, probably. He’s too impatient to wait very long.” Patton shrugs, far too used to the routine disappearance of his friends to be upset by it. Roman vanishing without a word used to be harrowing, but it was much worse the first few times—the screams were nearly unbearable, not to mention that the others were powerless to stop it. Patton has learned to take the silence as a small victory.

And eventually, Roman would return, no fanfare, no yells, just business as usual. If you watch, you might be able to see him appear—you just need to look for the eyes.

The eyes always come back first.


End file.
